


Pour some sugar on me

by JonathansNightFlight



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, M/M, Mentions of unhealthy behaviours, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 02:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathansNightFlight/pseuds/JonathansNightFlight
Summary: Sometime in the future, within Pragnificent's Identically Different AU, Will and Hannibal have a quiet night in. And then Will has a beautiful idea.Nothing but fluff and a touch of glitter, and love, so much love, and maybe a sip of Harold Pinter.





	Pour some sugar on me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pragnificent (PragmaticHominid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Enjoying the Best](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12175785) by [Pragnificent (PragmaticHominid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/pseuds/Pragnificent). 



“Let’s go to bed early tonight”, Will said, so close now that his breath stirred a few long silver hairs out of place. While Hannibal was getting lost in British drama, Will had managed to tip-toe the few steps between them - or rather, Hannibal had gallantly let Will creep up on him, since that allowed him to finish a few more annotated pages of “No Man's Land”. Decisively removing himself from the play’s world, he took off his reading glasses and looked up, expectant.

Will reached down, and, draping an arm around broad shoulders, he nuzzled his favourite spot behind Hannibal’s ear. He took a few deep breaths there - always eager to take the fragrance of his lover in - and then “Come on then. I will make it worth your while.”

Hannibal crinkled his nose at the breathy delivery. And then their eyes met and he drew a sharp breath at the honest excitement etched in Will’s features.

And yet he denied himself. He let the pause linger, thumbing the pages of his book.

“Well?” Will urged, fingers catching at the sleeve of Hannibal’s sweater.

Hannibal schooled his features into something neutral and vaguely concerned.

“Patience, Will. I am trying to recollect whether any of the tasks I had planned for the evening can be easily postponed. Whether any of them might be matters that require my urgent and immediate attention”.

“Hannibal, I swear-”

“And I must assure you, here and now, that I am not being pedantic for the sake of being pedantic. As evident by the fact that I already can recall concerns I’d wish to address, if only you would let me up-”

“I’ve taken the lamb out of the freezer, turned both wine glasses upside down and turned the washing machine on.”

Hannibal cocked his head at that, and indeed, he could hear the soft whirring of their laundry going through countless spins and cycles a few rooms over. So he continued, dead-pan.

“Very well. Then, I shall avail myself to you.”

At that, Will snatched the book from Hannibal’s soft grip and smacked it lightly against a thigh and then the outside of a forearm.

“Hannibal I swear, this is the last Harold Pinter I will allow under my roof” Will accompanied the threat with his best glare - highly ineffective, as he was simultaneously pawing at Hannibal’s sweater, torn between undressing the other man and leading them both to bed.

Hannibal took pity at Will’s growing frustration and removed his sweater, letting himself being led to their bed. Will’s hands - pulsing with excited energy - were propping him up against plush pillows, trousers lowered and discarded. He straddled Hannibal’s hips and leaned down - skin on skin now. He let long moments pass, listening to Hannibal’s heartbeat, sharing heat. The nervous energy dissipating as he gently undid Hannibal’s hair, brushing long strands to the side of the pillow.

“And what kind of books are now allowed under your roof?” Hannibal was patient, above all else. Will nipped at his earlobe - and Hannibal could see the blush colouring his cheeks even without looking.

“Shut up. You are my roof.” And then hastily, changing the subject “I wanted to give you a massage, that’s all”.

Hannibal thought there were more chances for Will to suddenly decide that dog-owning was too much of a hassle, than for whatever Will was planning to have been a “massage, that’s all”. And so he nodded in eager agreement.

And then he felt the first touch of something warm and velvety, somewhere between liquid and gel, being slowly spread across his shoulder-blade. Firm, warm fingers, scooping out another dollop of whatever that cream - gel? Lotion? - was, and softly kneading it across muscle and bone. Tender.

Will had been working on the… mixture for a few weeks. He wasn’t quite sure what spurred it on - he’d tell himself there was no rhyme or reason to it. Or maybe there was - the shadow of an ache in Hannibal’s face, something like a twitch of an eyebrow or the clench of a jaw. Maybe a muscle tightening at the flare of familiar ache, maybe Hannibal stretched over the table to retrieve the cafetière or a few hours later, when he’d reach to the top self for one of his Russian tomes, causing Will to wonder when had the novels and poetry books snuck up on him, managing to accumulate and pile on shelves and tables and book cases, at their impermanently permanent home.

But the heart of the matter was that he could see that Hannibal ached. Where Will’s teeth had dug too deep - before he’d known better how to balance between passion and comfort - there was the residual ache of knotted meat. And always, always, the pull of fresh scars and the dull throbbing of knitting skin. And Will did not feel - guilty, not quite. Because he trusted the pureness of Hannibal’s joy, he trusted that their desire was nothing if not shared. But there was something anonymous and dusty that clawed at him with every flinch and ache.

So instead of asking Hannibal for the umpteenth time if he was ok - getting stuck in endlessly peculiar and increasingly hilarious discussions on the nature of ok - he started his pet project. At first he’d mix a few drops of essential oils in their bath. Order them both increasingly bespoke moisturisers. Attend the odd online course on therapeutic massaging.

And then he found… this.

“It is iridescent”. Hannibal’s accent thickened at “iridescent”, turning the word into something dry, sardonic, mirthful.

“So it is”, drawled Will. His eyes were softly unfocused, captivated by the play of light on skin. The raised scar tissue caught the reflections of the bedside lamp, brightening - white as it was - becoming light itself.

“Do stores stock this?” Hannibal mused. “Is this a product you’ll find in a pharmacy, a novelty shop or is it rather sold online, next to custom-made dildos and garter belts?”

Will rubbed ever narrowing circles around one oval bite-mark, placed perfectly over a thick corded tendon just off the junction of shoulder and neck.

“You seem to have a very definite idea of where to find such wares. Curious much?”

“Am I intrigued by the unknown, gelatinous substance which, inevitably, warmed by our joined body heat, will be deposited into my blood stream, sipping through my pores, coating my insides, all the while shimmering in pink and purple?” There is nothing but laughter in Hannibal’s dry tone. “You might say so, yes.”

Will blinked. He felt a familiar touch of self-awareness that having been needled over and over again that night, turned into something young and stubborn, contrary “Are you accusing me of lack of taste, lack of consideration or attempted poisoning?” Will pressed his thumb firmly over a knot, and then let go, barely touching. “I should just leave you as you are, old man, covered in glitter and smelling delightful, and go enjoy myself an hour-long hot bath.”

In a heartbeat, Hannibal had twisted his body, long fingers circling Will’s wrists. He raised himself on his knees.

“Mercy, cruel man” He brought Will’s messy fingers to his lips, slow, deliberate. Eyes unblinking, he kissed the tips. “I retract everything. Please carry on spoiling me, as you were, and I will let you”.

Will held the eye-contact for a few long moments, letting the trust Hannibal offered freely fill up the hungry spaces inside. And then, as it became a touch too much, he pulled his wrist away, he turned his head. Placing his hands on Hannibal’s hips, he gently twisted him away. Leaning over, he brought his lips close to his marks and by his ear. “As you were”, breathy, soft.

And Hannibal smiled and melted into his touch.

Will let his fingers work once again, increasingly aimlessly, tender. His face grew lax, mesmerised. The beauty of the long muscles and the familiar skin, that could produce so much power - that would smash and slice clear through the throats of every neo-nazi scum that was unfortunate enough to cross their path - peppered with marks he had been allowed to leave there. Will wanted to touch every single fiber that made Hannibal but early enough he learned how to be content with staying on the surface. How to let all the emotions out through words and touches, instead of blades and fists. And for that, Will was eternally grateful.

Before he knew it, he was listing ingredients out loud. “Shea butter for the fatty acids, cocoa butter for the velvet texture. Rose water to dilute and mix. Calendula oil for its anti-inflammatory and antiviral properties. Smaller amounts of almond pulp, vitamin c extract, collagen for skin elasticity -”

“And?” Hannibal interjected, identifying the incoming pause.

“And, organic edible body glitter.” Will uttered with a single breath, sounding only a touch horrified. The reflections swam as Hannibal shivered bodily with silent laughter. “Go ahead, mock my aesthetic pleasures Hannibal.”

The shivers slowed and then stopped. The lights moved languid, up and down, reflections of the stars on a calm sea, as Hannibal’s breath evened.

A pause and then “I don’t imagine it tastes particularly delicious”. Will blinked.

“I haven’t” Will stumbled over the words, the thoughts. “I didn’t mean it this way.”

“I know” Hannibal shifted his muscles, arched upwards in invitation. “Put your hands on me, Will.”

The hands were back, spreading the velvety magic. “I know you didn’t mean it this way.” Hannibal sighed. “But I believe that I could make it taste good.”

“Oh?” Will’s fingers tightened in surprise, and then, consciously, relaxed.

“Coconut butter, refined, fructose, and icing sugar. A mixture of castor and icing sugar, different crystal structures to produce something like this liquid shimmering. A touch of food colouring, blue and pinks hues, bonded with almond oil” Hannibal paused, Will’s fingers having discovered and exploiting a particularly enjoyable spot. “We could still use rose water, but we would needn’t much.”

Will’s breath had deepened. Hannibal smiled.

“Of course, with all the fats and sugar, you should not consume too much. The layering would need be thinner, maybe concentrated on a smaller area. Then you could slowly melt the crystals with your tongue. I would imagine it would take some time until all the shimmer has dissolved.” Hannibal stopped at that, reaching out to touch Will. He turned, expressions neutral.

“And should you wish to put your hands between my thighs, something in soft gold, with honey then?” Will glared, eyes hooded and stormy, and Hannibal brought a hand up, defensive. “Or maybe I should stop. Maybe the sweetness would defeat the purpose entirely, should your motive be the simple purity of visual pleasure?”

Will’s eyes had taken a dark quality, revealing the stormy depths that captured Hannibal’s soul once and never let go. The moment stretched and Hannibal’s softened muscles complained loudly at the unnatural twist.

And then Will erupted in laughter, collapsing to his side. His eyes tried to find Hannibal’s, half-hidden between messy bangs and messier bed-sheets, only to get lost in another wave of laughter.

“You are evil, my love.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

“Truly dreadful.”

Hannibal cupped Will’s cheek, rubbed a circle with his thumb just under a blue eye.

“You had some glitter there”, he explained.

“I think you are lying” Will retorted.

Hannibal shrugged. “We will never know.”

It was so warm, and soft, and comfortable that they stayed as they were, covered in creamy glittering lotion for long minutes, sleep tantalisingly near. And then Will turned on his back, facing the ceiling.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, love?”

And then Will closed his eyes and crooned “Pour some sugar on me - ooh, in the name of love, pour some sugar on me-”

Hannibal kissed his lips before he could finish the chorus - half worshipful, half to shut him up - and when he pulled away they were both smiling something fierce.

**Author's Note:**

> For the incomparable Prag. After pages upon pages of sadness and my never-ending supply of horrible!not good!sob-inducing thoughts, I had to write something actually soft and loving for the most notorious Murder Boyfriends who will ever exist.


End file.
